Grantor: Augusta Pennington. Grantee: Odessa Lavinia Pryor. Below that was a description of the little white tenant cottage down the lane, the porch where I took my first steps, and the twelve acres of pecan trees behind it. The deed had been recorded on January ninth, two weeks after Christmas. At the bottom, in Augusta’s handwriting, was one line. For a lifetime of Fridays.

I couldn’t speak. Mavis handed me a tissue from her sleeve. “There’s more, honey,” she said gently. “Augusta also named you as the beneficiary on a savings account at the bank down the street. Sixty thousand dollars.” I gripped the edge of the table. Then her voice dropped. “Her sons found the bank paperwork yesterday. They came in here an hour ago asking how to contest the deed.”

Mavis wasn’t worried. Augusta had planned for that too. She had signed the deed in front of her attorney and her doctor, who wrote a letter confirming her mind was perfectly sound. Mavis said she had never seen a deed so carefully prepared. Augusta even recorded a short video explaining her reasons. In it, she said her sons had been given every advantage in life, and that I had been given every Friday.

Merritt and his brothers hired a lawyer from Louisville. After he watched the video, he advised them to drop the challenge immediately. Two weeks later, Merritt drove out to my apartment alone. He stood on my doorstep with his hat in his hand and apologized for the screen door, the check, and every Friday he never noticed I was there. Dewitt and Lowell never called.

I moved into the little white cottage that November. Bernice helped me paint the porch, and she cried when I showed her the spot where Mama said I took my first steps. The cottage still smells like pecans and Mama’s soap. The pecan trees produced more than I could ever eat, so I started selling them at the Saturday farmers market. Merritt bought the first bag. He comes by every fall now. With the savings account, I never had to scrub another floor.

I never cashed Merritt’s check. I framed it instead, beside the napkin with my middle name that Mavis found tucked inside the deed file. Every Friday morning, Mavis drives out for coffee and biscuits on my porch swing. Bernice joins us when she can. Augusta’s coffee cup sits on my windowsill. We talk about her. And before we start, I always say what she used to tell me: the housework isn’t going anywhere, but our time together is.